Tonight someone at the gym, a nice fellow but one I have spoken to only a few times in my life, walked up behind me and said, “Hi Dan.” I turned around and said, “… hi…. “ I couldn’t remember his name until the moment had passed. And then when I arrived home I saw my neighbor. She told me her name once. It was a little odd—Kit, or Kitty. I’m not sure which. How could I risk either one? I mean, really, if you were uncertain, would you risk mistakenly calling someone ‘Kitty’?

Tonight I heard the Wham/George Michael song “Careless Whisper.” It’s a wonderful song, and my only thought is this: I don’t care, George, if you like to slut your way through the sleazy restrooms of the British Empire or suck faceless dick through glory holes at rest stops on the Jersey turnpike… God bless you for that song, and keep ‘em coming. I hope he was unmoved by all of that fuss, or at least not devastated. Who cares what gets George off? Who cares what gets any of us off. None of it matters. We should enjoy our (legal) sexual impulses, try to maintain some discretion about it all, and live our lives. Anyway, who doesn’t enjoy a little sleaze now and again…and for some of us, sucking dick.

There are moments nearly every day that make the rest of the day bearable. I always revel in them. For me they are always intensely private, solitary moments, part of my inner life which, although perhaps it’s a hallmark of my self-absorption, is the most important part of my life. (I must sometime soon write a little about my mild autistic behavior, which has recently surfaced as a topic of conversation.) Tonight I noticed such a moment, that moment after I’ve finished my workout and am walking through the parking lot on my way to my car. Perhaps it’s part of the normal post-workout high, but so often, as I walk to my car in darkness, or as the sun is beginning to set, I imagine being in a strange new place, a new city, or a different part of the world, some place unfamiliar to me. And it fills me with momentary excitement and anticipation, a feeling of newness and possibility. I imagine, as I often do when looking at the open sky, that the ocean lies just a short mile or two from me, just beyond that row of houses, perhaps. I conjure up the sound of the ocean, and wonder what new things await me at work in the morning. I imagine a secure but charmed life of good friends, quiet nights, and new challenges. I think of sharing a bottle of red wine at a friend’s San Francisco loft, one with high ceilings and hardwood floors, the controlled laughter of beautiful, soulful friends, the sort of scene one might see on a commercial for a board game—scruples, trivial pursuit or some such game. I don’t really wish I were someplace else or had different friends—I think it’s just the feeling of possibilities, that I *could* or might face new challenges and new surroundings, that they might be even better than what my current situation holds. Or maybe it’s the reassuring feeling that this, whatever this might be, is not all there is. There is more, if you care to discover it, to risk a little for it. It’s fleeting, though. By the time I reach my car, I open my car door, throw my clothes in the back seat, and turn on the same CD I’ve been listening to for days, and drive off to my dingy apartment. It’s fine, really. Routine is good too, familiarity, and the reassuring, mild contempt one feels for it.